Rushing to Failure

I've been reading that a number of prominent media figures are publicly expressing hope that my new Commander-in-Chief fails. "I hope he fails," one such large pontificator reiterated recently at a gathering in Washington, DC. His speech was met with the wild cheers of all present.

Interesting concept, this hoping the Commander-in-Chief fails, and calling for it publicly.

As Commander-in-Chief, he is responsible -- ultimately -- for the success or failure of our military efforts.

So, hoping the Commander-in-Chief 'fails' seems to imply the wish that our military fails as well. And please don't try to tell me, "we only want *this* part to fail." I-want-him-to-fail is an all-or-nothing package. You can't have it both ways, folks!

(As an aside, if *I* as a Soldier were to express publicly the sentiment that I hoped the Commander-in-Chief would fail, I could be subject to very harsh punishment under the Uniform Code of Military Justice....)

If they want him as President to fail, they want him as Commander-in-Chief to fail. Period.

I guess that means, by extension, that these bloviators hope that *I* as a Soldier under the command of the Commander-in-Chief fail, as well.

When the military fails, that often means capture or death of military personnel. I am one of those military personnel. Thanks for the vote of confidence, and the good wishes in this rush to wish the new Commander-in-Chief failure!

(It seems a bit odd that there's a one-to-one correspondence between the people publicly expressing the hope that the new Commander-in-Chief fails, and the people who publicly expressed the view that anyone who disagreed with the military aims of the last Commander-in-Chief was a 'traitor' and didn't 'support the troops'.)

I'm sure feeling "supported" right now!

(As one who's about to hit the road on a long convoy mission, I hope the new Commander-in-Chief is a success.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Hero Flight

One night not long ago, SFC McG and I were outside the wire so I could conduct religious services elsewhere. We'd actually spent quite a long time on aircraft getting there, though map-wise it wasn't all that far away from our home base. We had to fly up to a place quite distant from home, wait around all day, and then catch a flight that made four stops (including a refueling stop, so everyone has to exit the aircraft) before we got where we were going.

Sometimes it's just like that over here.

The time for Mass had changed several times, later and later, and we landed even a bit late from what the final schedule indicated. Despite all that, a good-sized congregation had gathered, and sang heartily as we began the liturgy.

I love old hymn tunes because they tend to be very congregation-friendly (they're easy to pick up if not well-known at first, they don't usually have crazy, unsingable intervals, or odd and difficult rhythms).

Because we'd started late, I didn't think much of it when a number of people left the service before we'd finished.

I found out later that they'd left because they'd just been told that a Soldier from their unit had been killed in action moments before.

Much later that night, after some other things transpired, SFC McG and I found ourselves flying in the second of the two aircraft which comprised the Hero Flight which began that Soldier's final trip home.

It was a moving and humbling experience.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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An Internet with "Issues"

Connecting to the internet has been very spotty of late, which has made it both frustrating and difficult to update my blog. My apologies!

Several times in the very recent past, I've not been able to connect at all -- or else only to the web pages of the Internet Service Provider.

I'm sure they're very satisfied with themselves.

At least *someone* is.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Ash Wednesday, 2009

What a day! What with being out, in full battle-rattle, all day Tuesday on the road convoying to various places at some distance from where I live, and all the miles that SFC McG and I put on the NTV (non-tactical vehicle (= SUV)) on Ash Wednesday going from place to place around here, it has been a couple of exhausting days.

There were, all told, a LOT of people who came to Masses over the last couple of days. It's been great!

I live for this stuff.

The Gospel reading for Ash Wednesday each year is pretty awesome, too (Mt 6:1-6, 16-18 -- look it up!).

Jesus tells his followers "When you give alms... When you pray... When you fast...." He *presumes* they will be giving alms, and praying, and fasting -- which is the essence of Lenten penitential practice -- he doesn't say, "*If* you give alms," or "*If* you pray," or "*If* you fast!"

As I mentioned in an earlier post, our Lenten observance has to do with our walking in solidarity with those Catechumens who will be receiving the Sacraments of Initiation (Baptism, Chrismation, Eucharist) at the East Vigil this year, and are in their final days of preparation for those Sacraments.

Lenten almsgiving, praying, and fasting -- all interconnected -- have a communitarian focus. None of it is just about *me*. It's about the "us" that is the Christian community.

I hate to break it to you, folks.

(I know, many of you know share my motto which is, "I may not be much, but I *am* all I ever think about," so this is a hard and bitter pill to swallow!)

I pray that those of us who observe Lent this year can keep the focus on the community -- and especially on the Catechumens -- and try mightily to keep the focus off ourselves and how virtuous, etc., we are because of the feats of self-abnegation we're accomplishing by all the 'stuff' we've "given up for Lent."

When we give alms, when we pray, and when we fast this Lent (not IF!), let us do so in the light of our wonder and awe and gratitude for the action of a God in our lives who has loved us with a love that forgives and saves and transforms.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

In case you happen to see or speak to my parents tomorrow, 27FEB09, please wish them a happy 55th Wedding Anniversary.

I, for one, am grateful they got married!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Seen along the road....

Having hung out with Tankers since I was in the process of joining the Army, imagine my surprise and disquiet at seeing the "No Almost-Upside-Down Tanks" sign along one of the roads I traverse when I'm making my rounds.

Though, with the speed limit sign above it, perhaps only almost-upside-down track vehicles can only go *less* than 50 kph?

It's a puzzlement....

A blessed Ash Wednesday to you!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mardi Gras

Perhaps because I've been clean and sober for over 29 years now, but Mardi Gras has not been that big a deal in my life for a long time now. I suspect today will be no different, in that regard.

It will be different from every other Mardi Gras I've ever 'celebrated', however, because I'm here in Iraq and will probably go out on a mission via convoy that will take all day. I'll be able to visit a couple of outposts I've wanted to get to since we took responsibility for religious coverage of those places a few months back.

And, since "every day in the Army is Sunday," I figure every day this week is Ash Wednesday, and we'll be observing Ash Wednesday with the Soldiers (and others) who show up. I celebrated Mass at a small place not unlike the ones we'll visit today, and one of the third-country nationals (foreign workers) who attended Mass could not speak very much English, so he sang several songs in Urdu as his contribution to the worship.

I didn't understand anything except the name of Jesus (I think!), but didn't feel the need to, either.

I pray that Mardi Gras be meaningful (and safe!) for each who reads this blog.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Foreign Cultures

Fr. Tim: "Ma'am! It's good to see you! I'm not sure where SFC McG is, but as soon as he returns, we can go to lunch."

MAJ L: "I think I saw him duck into the latrine across the hall."

Fr. Tim: "Oh."

MAJ L (after an awkward pause): "Aren't you going to go in and check?"

Fr. Tim (looking a bit puzzled): "No, Ma'am."

MAJ L: "Well, *I'd* go right in, and just ask."

Fr. Tim (looking more confused): "Into the male latrine, Ma'am?"

MAJ L (witheringly): "No! Into the *female* latrine, if I wanted to know if someone were in there."

Fr. Tim: "Oh."

MAJ L: "You probably don't talk to one another in the shower, either, do you?"

Fr. Tim: "Of course not, Ma'am!"

MAJ L (looking triumphant): "I thought not. We, on the other hand, carry on lively conversations there."

Fr. Tim: "Oh."

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Rose Water

While I was attempting to acquire the first of what turned out to be four graduate degrees before my doctorate (more than half my lifetime ago now!), I experienced the Liturgy of the Burial of Jesus on Good Friday night for the first time. This incredibly evocative, ecumenical liturgy from the Eastern Orthodox tradition, adapted some years before by my spiritual director at the time, transformed my experience of the Easter Triduum -- Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil.

Western liturgies for Good Friday (and I don't mean California) tend to be incredibly wordy, and focused almost exclusively on the most difficult details of the suffering and death of Jesus. Almost as an afterthought, it seems, we're told that Jesus' body was laid in a tomb.

Eastern liturgies (not talking New York here) ritually re-enact the funeral of Jesus, on the other hand. Instead of being overloaded with words, the Liturgy of the Burial of Jesus, especially as adapted by Fr. Carl, moves along accompanied by very few words. The power of the visual and olfactory cues carries meanings which need little or no verbal accompaniment.

Mourners enter the completely darkened church, except for the light of two candles on the floor of the sanctuary, at the foot of a large, bare wooden cross. Each is given an unlighted taper (small candle) before proceeding to the front of the church. Upon approaching the light, people see a muslin shroud laid upon the floor beneath the cross, one candle at each end. The shroud has a figure of the dead Christ painted on it. There is no music.

The setting encourages, and indeed enforces, the silence of all concerned, who have gathered in a haphazard throng around the shroud.

As the liturgy begins, the celebrant and perhaps an assistant enter the assembly and make their way, in silence, to the center. The celebrant prostrates himself on the floor as a means of reverencing the shroud. After a time, he rises and further reverences the shroud, and the assembly, by sprinkling the shroud and the assembly with rose water, and then again with orange blossom water using an aspergillum made from pine branches or other suitable greenery.

The aerosolized rose water and orange blossom water remind us of the spices brought by Nicodemus and the myrrh-bearing women (c.f. Jn 19:38-42; Lk 23:50-24:1). In the darkened church building, with only the light of the two candles illuminating the scene, the sensory engagement draws the participants into the liturgical action.

The Incense Psalm (Ps 141) is intoned by a vocal solist as the shroud and assembly are reverenced with incense. Afterward, a short psalm-prayer is prayed. During the intoning of one other psalm, the rose water and orange blossom water are again sprinkled over shroud and the assembly. Another short psalm-prayer follows.

After the reading of a Gospel passage (one of those listed above), everyone's taper is lighted. Four people lift the shroud and carry it in procession around the interior of the church building and perhaps outside to a tomb or downstairs to a crypt where it is laid to rest. As the shroud is carried, the presider intones a simple Trisagion hymn (Holy God. Holy Mighty One. Holy Immortal One. Have mercy on us.) which is repeated over and over until he breaks forth with the same words, in Greek, to a slightly different tune. The assembly then begins the English version again, followed by the Greek, until the shroud has been laid to rest.

Once the crowd has gathered at the tomb, the presider and assistant reverence the shroud by kneeling down and kissing it. The assembled are invited to acknowledge the shroud in whatever fashion they feel comfortable. If a cantor is present, the psalms from the liturgy may be repeated, as may the Trisagion, but otherwise no words are spoken.

As those present leave after reverencing the shroud, each is given a fresh spring flower. If possible, I like to have tulips and daffodils to hand out.

What's so amazing to me about this liturgy, which takes only a half hour to complete before the shroud's 'burial', is that people seem not to want to leave after it's over.

I suspect what happens for them may be what always happens for me: the previous year's griefs are all contextualized by bringing them to the burial of the Lord. It's not uncommon to see tears streaming down faces as I hand out flowers at the end.

The tears are holy.

This year, I plan to celebrate the Liturgy of the Burial of Jesus here Down Range, though the conditions will be anything but ideal. I do have my shroud with me, painted with a figure of the dead Christ by a friend of mine who was living with HIV disease at the time, so the corpus has Kaposi's sarcoma lesions on it. Over the years it has accumulated dripped wax and smudges from the earth on which it's been laid, as well as countless tears which have fallen on it as mourners have bent over it to reverence it with their own holy grief.

I'm rather certain this year I'll be unable to hand out fresh flowers, which is a sadness, but probably unavoidable, given the constraints of being in a war zone. We can get by without them.

But what I could really use is some rose water and/or orange blossom water. I was unable to secure any before I mobilized and deployed, so if anyone out there in blogland might be able to snag me some, I'd be indebted to you! (If you can help me with this, please let me know in the 'comments' section below. Many thanks.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The Tourette's Trailer

Many years ago now, I lived in a Jesuit Community in which one of the Jesuits suffered from Tourette's Syndrome. At the time, I was still pretty young (I was once young, if you can believe it) and I'd never heard of it. When I moved in, no one thought to give me a heads-up such as, "When a certain guy walks past you in the hall, and starts swearing up a blue streak, it doesn't have anything to do with you."

So for months, after moving in, whenever I'd pass that guy in the hall, he'd break forth into some exquisitely 'flowery' language in a loud stage whisper. It was very disconcerting and confusing. I felt awful.

I was of course the youngest member of the Community at the time (something that had been true for many, many, many years until shortly after I moved into my present Community, when someone younger (by a couple of months) moved in). Having had no prior experience like this, I wasn't sure whether the guy didn't like younger Jesuits or simply didn't like ME. I didn't realize he had a medical condition.

Talk about an "elephant in the living room"! It was huge, making a big mess, and everybody had to sidle around it in order to go about daily activities, but nobody ever mentioned it. Fortunately in that city, as with most other places I've lived, I somehow managed to find myself surrounded by people (not Jesuits, however!) who were going to a lot of Al-Anon meetings, and I heard the word "Tourette's" for the first time. My friends helped me to detach with love. That helped a LOT!

These days I think I'm living in The Tourette's Trailer over here Down Range.

And to think that people have thought that *my* language could -- comment dit-on -- skirt the bounds of politeness!

I'd been told that when our new overlords (as I like to call them) arrived I would notice a big change in the general climate of the place, in how people approached problems, in the way these people look at the world versus how our old masters viewed things. Boy, was that an understatement.

For the past seven months, the neighbors to my right and to my left (my CHU, or 'upscale dumpster' as I like to refer to it, is divided into three living spaces; I occupy the center unit) were so quiet and demur, I only ever saw them perhaps a total of five times, and almost never heard them. Remember that the "walls" separating the units consist of two sheets of wood paneling apposed to one another.

The night that my new neighbors on the one side of me moved in, I arrived at my CHU at 2345 (quarter to midnight) to find that I could hear the music blaring from that unit while I was still down the way from home, and they didn't have their door or window open. I said to myself, "Self? I think this might be a portent of things to come...."

Soon thereafer, the night The Snorer moved in next to me (see an earlier blog post), it seemed as though he and his roommmate had a party at 0330 that lasted until The Snoring began.

What I hadn't mentioned in that earlier blog post, I don't believe, was the language that my new neighbors brought with them.

For a couple of weeks, right about the time my new neighbors arrived, my now-former boss moved into in my CHU with me, because that meant he'd not have to move over to Tent City and share a living space with nineteen other guys. The very first night he was here, we were 'treated' to some behemoth or other pounded on the doors to the units on either side of us. It felt as though I were back home during a 5.1 earthquake, the way the trailer was shaking. The pounding was accompanied by a flood of language such as I'd not even heard from Brother back in my Community years ago.

My boss has been in the Army a long time, and could have retired already but hasn't yet, and even HE was surprised by the creative use of a certain word -- as every part of speech imaginable, and then a few others I had thought only existed in Medieval Icelandic. This was all the more noticeable, because these incidents would happen in the middle of the night, or at the crack of dawn, or in the middle of the day -- pretty much whenever one of us was in the CHU.

Both of us, separately, spoke to the occupants on either side of us, concerning the decorum requisite for gracious communal living.

I guess we weren't speaking the correct language.

My boss has returned home to the States, so I now have my part of the CHU all to myself, but I'm still serenaded by The Snorer -- who seems to be able to snore (and does!) almost any hour of the day or night. I am beginning to wonder whether he even has a job over here, because seemingly no matter what time I show up at the CHU, he's snoring away. His alarm clock still goes off, every so often, at 0530 and then goes for ten or more minutes -- right next to my head -- when he's not even in the CHU (as I discovered one morning when I went over there, having had quite enough, thank you very much!; I'd gotten in at 0310 that morning).

His roommate, The Sleeper, evidently needs almost-daily help getting up after he's been sleeping. This accounts, I suspect, for a lot of the pounding on doors and the yelling of flowery epithets. Yesterday, when I was trying to sleep in for just a couple of extra hours, since I'd not gotten any time off this week, someone pounded on my neighbors' door SIX times trying to get that guy up and out. Each time I could hear him respond to the language in kind (though there's nothing kind about the language), and each time I guess he'd fall right back to sleep.

On the other side of the trailer, we have Tattoo, who has almost no epithelium other than his face that's not inked in some way or other. He may be one of the voices behind some of the f-bombs during the door-pounding, but that's only a hunch. (I know that the guys on both sides of me are friends with each other.) Tattoo's roommate, The Musician, likes to share his rather idiosyncratic (to my ears, anyway) taste in recordings with everyone in a 100-meter radius.

Perhaps the worst aspect of the new neighborhood I'm in, however, is that now when I come "home" at night (or in the middle of the night, if I've been outside the wire on a mission), my CHU smells of cigarette smoke. I used to smoke -- even cigarettes! But for the last thirty years, I have been allergic to cigarette smoke and *hate* it. Now, I'm not accusing any of those guys of smoking inside their rooms, but...

As I'm typing this, someone is swearing and pounding on The Sleeper's door on the one side, and The Musician on the other side is sharing "Bad Company" with me and all the CHUs down the row.... Seriously.

How ironic, eh?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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The Advent of Lent

It's hard to believe that next Wednesday is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of yet another Lent. More and more as I'm taking life a day at at time, it seems as though time passes quicker and quicker. Staying in the moment really helps.

I've already begun to have discussions with people about "what to give up for Lent," and I'm surprised yet again at how few people know what Lent is about, and why people would even "give something up" in the first place.

Sigh.

As an aside, let me just say that if you're tempted to give up alcohol for Lent, that's pretty much diagnostic for needing to prove to yourself that you're NOT having problems with alcohol. And only people who ARE having problems with alcohol feel the need to prove to themselves -- and others -- that they're NOT. (Take it from one who knows, first-hand!)

[Cue the stars across the TV screen with the "The More You Know" title.]

The 40 days of Lent were originally the final time of preparation for Catechumens (newcomers) who would be received into the Church through the Sacraments of Baptism (by immersion), Chrismation (what you call Confirmation) and Eucharist, at the Easter Vigil.

Prayer and fasting have long been associated with spiritual growth, in a variety of religious traditions. Lent was the time for those preparing for full incorporation into the Community of Believers to engage in spiritual exercises which reminded them of their need of salvation and God's pure gift in granting that Salvation through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

The focus of Lent should be on the Catechumens, and how we as a community of believers can journey with them on their way to the Easter Sacraments.

As a community, then, our Lenten observance should help the Catechumens (and Candidates for full Communion -- those who've already been baptized) to see in us what my friends who go to a lot of AA meetings talk about: "If you want what we have and are willing to go to any length to get it, then you are ready to take certain steps."

"Giving something up" for Lent is not an end in itself! It's not a demonstration of our inner resources or how ascetic we are or how everybody should be in awe of the great feats of self-denial we can engage in publicly. If I choose to give something up, I need to become more generous with what I have as a result.

For example: I know a family that has a soup supper once per week during Lent, and the money they would have spent on a full meal that night goes into a jar so everyone can watch the contents grow over the course of the 40 days (excluding Sundays, of course, since they're not 'counted' as Lenten observance days). At the end of Lent (Lent ends on Maundy Thursday, by the way), the family goes to a parish which hosts a soup kitchen and the whole family gives the money to the director of the program.

It is never a *lot* of money for that family, because (in part) they don't have a lot of money to begin with, and they don't live or eat extravagantly. But it's not about the amount! It's about the family, collectively, engaging in a common spiritual practice that reminds them of those less fortunate even as they give thanks for the blessings they themselves enjoy. It's about those parents teaching their children that we're all connected as human beings to those we don't even know.

Let's be clear about this: If I give up chocolate, or whatever, and wind up being a grumpy, ill-tempered, curmudgeon filled with bad attitudes as a result.... Oh wait. Never mind!

That family's Lenten practice brings them closer together as a family, and intentionally unites them to those around them. Their Lenten self-denial enables them to be of greater -- and grateful -- service to others. This is what true self-denial does. It's what true mortification does. This is what true community does. This is how each of us who "once was lost, but now am found" can respond in love to the love we've been shown, if we so choose.

As I was sharing this with a Soldier who'd met me in passing and brought up the topic of Lent, her eyes widened and she said, "Wow. I never knew it was about more than just giving something up."

Unless my Lenten observance helps me to become more like the person Jesus was, "the Son of Man [who] came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for the many" (NRSV: Mk 10:45), I figure it's best not even to bother -- especially with giving up alcohol for Lent.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Newcomers

As has happened at other times in my life, and in other places, I've recently found myself in the company of folks who go to a lot of AA or Al-Anon or other 12-step recovery meetings. Even over here in Iraq!

Amazing.

It's been great to be reminded by these people who go to a lot of those meetings what an appropriate response to the various (myriad, in my case!) powerlessnesses of our lives can look like. One might think that after hearing this stuff from so many people over the course of so many years, I might actually remember it.

But one would be wrong.

Circumstances of late have conspired to keep me from being able to get done what needs doing, and what I really want to be doing over here. Dust particles (of which I wrote not long after my arrival Down Range) tend to be mighty tiny, but mighty powerful, as it turns out. What with second- and third-order effects being what they are, teeny tiny dust particles can at times even keep resupply convoys from running.

So I suppose it's not that big a stretch to imagine that those nefarious little things would prevent me from doing what I long to be doing over here, as well.

The only good aspect of being tied down to 'home' here is that I've found myself in the company of quite a number of meeting-attending folks on a semi-regular basis. What a kick!

One of the delights of spending time with them has been meeting and getting to know the newcomers.

I've heard for years from my friends who go to a lot of those meetings (of whatever 12-Step flavor happens to be their preference) that newcomers are the most important people in the room. Listening to the newcomers who go to those meetings here Down Range consistently lifts my sprits. Hearing their excitement at discovering a program for living which literally saves their lives helps put the rest of my experiences over here into perspective.

The newcomers are not necessarily young, though a couple of them are. One guy is nineteen years old. A female Soldier who goes to those meetings is 22. (Both of them are younger than I was when I stopped drinking in 1979.) One of the newcomers to Al-Anon is almost as old as I am. One of the other newcomers actually helped start those meetings on this post Down Range during his last deployment here, and though he hasn't had a drink in more than eight years, he's never really 'worked' the program (as he puts it) before.

Spending time with them, listening to them share their experience, strength, and hope with one another, watching heads nodding as someone tells a story about "what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now" brings me a lot of peace.

I'm not sure *how* that works, but I am here to tell you *that* it works!

Fortunately for me this week, I had spent some time with those folks the night before I got some bad news, and then I found myself back in their company two nights later. I guess there's something about being in the midst of people who have met adversity with serenity and had the serenity prevail that empowers me better to be able to connect with serenity myself.

It's what happens for some people who go to church on a regular basis, too.

The key to those encounters with others, I suspect, is being able to come together from a place of common need, of shared suffering, rather than from the place of "what will they be thinking if I wear this versus that."

Given my job, I've spent a lot of time around people who go to church, and given other aspects of my life, I've spent a lot of time around people who go to a lot of 12-Step recovery meetings. Irrespective of which group we're talking about, I'd rather surround myself with others who know deeply -- even painfully -- their need.

When I'm aware of my own brokenness, of my own not-having-it-all-together, I'm much better able to acknowledge my need of a God in my life (Good Order and Discipline; Gift Of Desperation; Good Orderly Direction; Group Of Drunks, etc., if that's what it takes!) and in so doing, my need for these other people around me.

The Eucharistic Prayer for Masses of Reconciliation (No. 2) which I use so often over here in this war zone puts it this way: "You gave him up to death so that we might turn again to you and find our way to one another."

That's certainly been my experience. The more I recognize my need for a God in my life, the more I realize my need for others to journey with me along this path. When I'm aware of the depth and breadth of the unmanageability of my life, I'm much better disposed toward allowing a Higher Power to be the one who has all power.

(As a Christian, I have in Jesus a Higher Power who's also a Higher Powerlessness, and I like that a lot!)

The more I'm like one of those newcomers -- filled with wonder and awe and joy and enthusiasm in sharing an acceptance of powerlessness in a spirit of gratitude which issues forth into selfless service -- the better my life becomes, no matter what else is going on.

Perhaps that's why my friends who go to a lot of meetings keep telling me that the newcomer is the most important person in the room....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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"Economic Downturn"

A couple of months ago, I received an email from the President of the institution where I've been gainfully employed for a while, indicating that because of the economic downturn, the endowment of the institution had lost almost a billion dollars of net worth.

Perhaps ten days later I received an email from the Chair of my Department indicating that they'd be cutting staff in the Department by twenty percent.

I figured this did not bode well for Tim.

Today I opened an email indicating that my position in the Department no longer has guaranteed funding, and that I'd be receiving the official notification of same via snail-mail.

So I guess I'll be joining the ranks of the unemployed when I return from my military service here Down Range in a war zone.

(Lest people think that USERRA prevents this sort of thing: if the *position* goes away, the employer is no longer obligated to re-hire the Soldier/Marine/Sailor/Airman/Coast Guardsman who's been deployed. The position I've held -- Undergraduate Research Coordinator and Director of the Honors Program in the Department -- is being axed, so my employer is released from rehiring me after my deployment ends.)

I guess there are big changes ahead for me....

The sadness I'm experiencing right now cannot be articulated in words.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Big trouble

Six years ago at this time of the year, I got in *big trouble* over the readings we read this past Sunday. Actually, to be more precise, I got in *big trouble* over what I preached about the readings we read.

Since the Lectionary is set up as a three-year cycle, I know precisely that it was six years ago, because the readings for the Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time were the same then as they were on Sunday.

For those of you who slept in -- I mean, had other priorities -- the readings were Lv 13:1-2, 44-46; Ps 32:1-2, 5, 11; 1 Cor 10:31-11:1; and Mk 1:40-45. (I'll let you look them up, if you'd like.) Suffice it to say that the first reading had to do with leprosy -- and the fact that it was the High Priest who'd diagnose that condition (not a medical doctor) -- and the Gospel reading recounted the story of a leper approaching Jesus asking to be healed.

Six years ago now, in case you don't remember it, the US was building up to the invasion of Iraq, and shortly before the Sunday on which these readings were read, some bozo in the government had 'encouraged' the populace to go out and buy duct tape and plastic, in case there were bio-weapons unleashed against the US citizenry.

I couldn't believe how ludicrous a notion that was, in the first place, but more than that, I was appalled at how many youngsters and long-timers in the congregations where I said Mass were simply terrified beyond words by the statement made by that government bozo.

More baffling still was the radio silence maintained by most of the big-name church-folk from mainline church bodies in the face of such blatant fear-mongering.

The bottom line up front (BLUF, in Army-speak): Christians don't do fear. Period.

Doesn't matter who's selling it, either by force of arms or of words, Christians don't do fear.

Period.

Yet so-called Christians were talking about "terror alert levels" -- why not "preparedness alert levels"?? (which is inherently more terrifying, eh?) -- and about duct tape and plastic, and not about a God who is so big that "there is nothing in all the created world" (to paraphrase Rom 8:32) that can separate us from the love of that God!

I couldn't believe it.

So I walked into the largest, wealthiest church in the area that day carrying a canvas bag, which I placed on the altar at the beginning of Mass. (I hate *anything* to be on the altar at the beginning of Mass!) After the readings, as I began the homily (it's akin to a sermon, sort of), I picked up the bag and began walking up and down the center aisle, as is my wont.

I talked about how a diagnosis of leprosy -- even for something as medically innoucuous as eczema -- could be a death sentence for someone in the ancient near east (especially if the person were a woman or a child), which was why the man in the Gospel reading was feeling his whole world had been turned upside down, his very life was threatened by the diagnosis he'd received.

I told the assembled congregation that we needed to look at what he didn't do, versus what he *did* do, in the face of that fear, because a lot of people in our own day were feeling as if their world had been turned upside down. As if their whole way of life, indeed their *very* life, was threatened.

That's when I reached into the bag, and thrust a big gray roll of duct tape in the air with my left hand and boomed out, "He did NOT place his trust in duct tape!"

I then reached into the bag, pulled out the crucifix I received at my First Vows, raised it high with my other hand, and declaimed, "He placed his trust in Jesus!"

Continuing on, I said: "And just because he placed his trust in Jesus, it did NOT mean that what he didn't want to happen didn't happen. He didn't want to die, which is why he asked Jesus to heal him. But guess what? Even though Jesus healed him, HE EVENTUALLY DIED! But he didn't have to live in fear in the meantime!! Christians do NOT do fear!"

Some people got up and walked out.

One of them was the donor who'd consistently given the largest single yearly gift to the parish for at least a dozen or more years running.

I got told by the parish secretary later that week that I wouldn't be doing Mass there anymore....

Big trouble, I tell you.

(I wouldn't have it any other way.)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Viewer Mail

Years ago I used to watch a TV program every so often during which the host would announce "Viewer Mail."

I've posted a number of missives and messages I've received in response to my blog, and thought I might post one I received today concerning my ministry over here Down Range.

Father,

I'll definitely miss Wednesday mass with you. You bring a special light
and joy with you...that kind that will last for me a lifetime.

Thanks so much for being there in my time of need and thanks for helping
to bring Jesus back into my life.

And I'll see you at least one more time this Wednesday!

[name redacted]

Who'd a thunk it that *I* would be able to be used by God in this way in the life of a Soldier? Hooray for the Higher Power!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mass Readings -- 08FEB09, part 2

So yesterday I was commenting on the Sunday readings from a week ago now, and I mentioned how the first reading, from Job, tells the truth about how difficult life can be at times. Then the Responsorial Psalm (Ps. 147) reminds us that we can have a really, really, really big God, even (especially!) in the face of life's trials.

This is good news, and worth celebrating.

(Of course, if we're the 'frozen chosen' we just sit there and judge, however. what's up with *that*?)

Furthermore, in the second reading, Paul states (in part) in the First Letter to the Corinthians,

Brothers and sisters:
If I preach the gospel, this is no reason for me to boast,
for an obligation has been imposed on me,
and woe to me if I do not preach it! (NAB: 1Cor 9:16)

You see, he's been through the wringer, he knows the depth and breadth and height of his need before God, and has found a Higher Power who's so big that he'll say, in the eighth chapter of the Letter to the Romans,

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (NRSV: Romans 8:38-39) [emphasis mine]

There's nothing in all the created world that can separate Paul from the love of God -- nothing. No trial, no deployment, no separation from loved ones, no shame, no fear.

No terrorist, even.

So Paul in the First Letter to the Corinthians can't help but tell others about this good news. He simply can't keep his mouth shut about it. It's too big to keep inside, and if he were to try, it's "woe to me if I do not preach it!"

This is supposed to be our story as well. (That's why there are readings appointed to be read in Lectionary-based liturgical celebrations. They tell our story, again and again.)

Moreover, in the Gospel reading, from the first chapter of Mark's Gospel,

On leaving the synagogue Jesus entered the house of
Simon and Andrew with James and John.
Simon's mother-in-law lay sick with a fever.
They immediately told him about her.
He approached, grasped her hand, and helped her up.
Then the fever left her and she waited on them. (NAB: Mk 1:29-31)

Simon's mother-in-law (clearly Peter was married, and he was the first Bishop of Rome...), upon being healed "got it" that true gratitude is expressed in service. This is a great story in the first chapter of Mark's Gospel (which is filled with stories of Jesus healing folks) because Jesus does the unthinkable. (He always seems to be doing that, and I like that about him!)

He *touches* a woman he's not related to.

In the ancient Near East -- and indeed to this very day in the part of the world where I happen to be living right now) -- a male just did NOT touch a female he was not related to! That was a very bad thing to do, and is still considered such today.

But Jesus is not held down or held back by slavish adherence to the limitations that we human beings place upon him. He realized the awesome power of human touch, and in his touching her, in his lifting her up, she was healed.

We can have a God who wants to touch us, too, if we so choose.

And she, in her gratitude, started being of service. Right away. Gratefully.

That's supposed to be our story.

Soldiers know all about 'selfless service' -- it's one of our so-called Army Values. So the part about service, and about it being selfless, is nothing new. What's important is that Pete's mom-in-law's selfless service was rooted in her gratitude for God's healing, saving action in her life, in the midst of her pain.

All of us, in whatever our 'deployment' looks like, in the midst of whatever trials we might be enduring, who choose to have a really, really big God in our life, can have a God who heals broken hearts and binds up our wounds. We too can be filled with gratitude -- if we let ourselves be filled -- as Paul was, and we can let others know that this can be true for them as well, as Paul did.

And like Marge (I like to think of Pete's mom-in-law as being named Marge), we can let that gratitude issue forth into grateful, selfless service.

(Amazing what the 'limitations' placed by the use of a Lectionary upon the Presider at a litugical celebration can yield, eh?)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Mass Readings -- 08FEB09, part 1

I wrote about liturgical worship celebrations yesterday using a Lectionary, a collection of Scripture readings appointed for each day of the year, and that a number of religious traditions use pretty much the same cycle of readings, irrespective of where in the world a person might happen to be. Rather than functioning as a straitjacket, the reliance upon the Lectionary can actually be quite freeing.

Just this past Sunday, for example, the readings at Mass were an odd amalgam, but one which worked perfectly for the situation of Soldiers deployed over here Down Range for 15 months. As it turned out, it was the last Sunday here for a whole passel of Soldiers who would be leaving a couple of days later.

The first reading was from Job -- not the happiest of campers. The text, as given in the Lectionary, is worth presenting in its entirety:

Job spoke, saying:
Is not man's life on earth a drudgery?
Are not his days those of hirelings?
He is a slave who longs for the shade,
a hireling who waits for his wages.
So I have been assigned months of misery,
and troubled nights have been allotted to me.
If in bed I say, "When shall I arise?"
then the night drags on;
I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;
they come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is like the wind;
I shall not see happiness again. (NAB: Job 7:1-4, 6-7)

This is good news?

I read it and immediately loved it. It's very curmudgeon-y. I told my Soldiers that a little-known fact about Job was that he was deployed to Iraq for a 15-month tour when he wrote this. (Those who put together the Lectionary conveniently left out one verse, though: "My flesh is clothed with worms and dirt; my skin hardens, then breaks out again." Too bad, too! This really completes the deployment picture!)

What I really love about it is that it tells the truth about how the author is feeling.

But then, the Responsorial Psalm (Ps 147:1-2, 3-4, 5-6) follows with:

R. Praise the Lord, who heals the brokenhearted.

Praise the LORD, for he is good;
sing praise to our God, for he is gracious;
it is fitting to praise him.
The LORD rebuilds Jerusalem;
the dispersed of Israel he gathers.

R. Praise the Lord, who heals the brokenhearted.

He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
He tells the number of the stars;
he calls each by name.

R. Praise the Lord, who heals the brokenhearted.

Great is our Lord and mighty in power;
to his wisdom there is no limit.
The LORD sustains the lowly;
the wicked he casts to the ground.

R. Praise the Lord, who heals the brokenhearted.

So, following the recitation of Job's miseries, we are immediately reminded that we can have a God who's really, really, really BIG. A God so big that that God not only can number the stars, but who also has a personal relationship with each -- God calls each by name.

That's the way a really, really, really BIG God can relate to each of us, by name. This huge God can be so big that there can be "no situation too great to be bettered, and no unhappiness too great to be lessened" as my friends who go to a lot of Al-Anon meetings keep telling me.

The person who wrote that first reading had a broken heart. God heals broken hearts. Soldiers here in Iraq, far from home and loved ones and in the midst of people -- some of whom we can't stand and some of whom can't stand us (and some even to the point of trying to kill us) -- we'd rather not be around, can have a God who can heal *our* broken hearts, too. A God who can bind up our wounds, whether physical or psychological.

But wait, there's more!

However, it's late, so I'll tackle that tomorrow.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Liturgical celebration

I'm told that there used to be lots of Chaplains in the Army from denominations that have rather similar and formulaic worship services: Episcopalian, Lutheran, Roman Catholic, some Methodist, and some Presbyterian. These days, we're few and far between.

One of my good buddies here Down Range has been a Lutheran pastor I met shortly after I arrived. His Chaplain Assistant is a really high-speed E-5 Sergeant who accompanied me on a number of missions "outside the wire" when SFC McG was back in the States on leave a couple of months ago. Though we've not spent all that much time together, given his need to be on the road visiting his Soldiers and my need to be in the air (usually) to visit mine, it's always been a delight to hang out.

SFC McG naturally mentors the Chaplain Assistants junior to himself, and SGT M and he hit it off immediately.

The four of us recently went to lunch and then back to their office and sat around and yakked it up for a surprisingly long time. A recently-arrived Chaplain and Chaplain Assistant went with us and we got to discussing the phenomenon of liturgical celebration, seeing as there are so few of us in the Chaplaincy who worship that way anymore.

Ch C mentioned that there was a really good chance that when he redeploys (goes home for good) to the States, there will be no one to take over the Lutheran-Episcopalian worship service here on post after he's gone. He was feeling a little frustrated that other Chaplains didn't seem to understand that a "Traditional Protestant" service, which would probably replace his Sunday liturgies would not be the same, and that his congregation would find themselves "like sheep without a shepherd."

He asked me, "How would you try to explain the difference between liturgical celebration and other forms of contemporary or traditional Protestant worship?" I replied, "I'm not sure this is really *my* "lane," but the first word that pops into my mind is 'Lectionary'. If I'm bound to using pre-determined readings each time I lead worship, and I've not pre-determined them, there's a good chance I'm involved in a liturgical celebration." This is especially true if I know that people the world over, even in different denominations, are more often than not using the same readings.

Over the course of a three-year cycle of Sundays (and a two-year cycle of weekdays), Lutherans, Episcopalians, Roman Catholics, some Methodists, and some Presbyterians, generally speaking, all use the same readings on any given day (with some noteable exceptions, but hey, work with me here).

That's a fairly good rule of thumb to use when reckoning whether the worship is liturgical.

Some of my Chaplain friends who come from non-liturgical worship traditions find the whole notion of a Lectionary to be very stultifying, but I find it challenging and energizing. Rather than limiting the 'message' (usually), the Lectionary offers me the opportunity to make the readings come alive for the assembly of the faithful, given the particular times and circumstances in which we find ourselves.

Sometimes this is a lot easier than other times, that's for sure!

But there's something very, well, catholic, about knowing that those same readings are being proclaimed in Mahmudiyah or Moscow (Iowa, even).

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Foreign languages - part 2

Yesterday I wrote about the language of acronyms I now speak, which is a far cry from another language I've been having to learn of late.

I'm reminded of an old "Peanuts" cartoon I read as a child, and identified with at the time. Linus, Lucy, and Charlie Brown are lying on a hill, watching the clouds. In the first frame Linus says, "I can see North and South America, Europe and Africa!" In the second, Lucy says: "I can see George Washington crossing the Delaware!" In the third frame, Charlie is looking up at the clouds without speaking.

In the fourth frame, Linus and Lucy look at Charlie and together say, "So?"

Charlie responds, "I was going to say I see a ducky and a horsey."

One of my buddies from Chaplain School last year is a Special Forces (Green Beret) prior-service Soldier with many years' experience in the Army before becoming a Baptist Chaplain. He's an amazing young man, and has spent his whole time in the Army as a Guardsman. Go Guard! Hooah!

He's also getting a doctorate in St. Thomas Aquinas.

Not your average Baptist preacher, I'd say.

Anyway, he's got me reading some of the stuff he's using in his doctoral studies. (I think he's thinking I'm going to be some sort of SME (subject matter expert), but boy, does he have another think coming!) It's as if this stuff he has me reading (and for which I shelled out $42 plus shipping and handling!) is in a different language.

Here's an example -- just a single paragraph, only a few pages into the text -- you tell me!:

However, the 'obvious' connection of the factum and the secular can and must be called into question. It is not enough just to point out, like Hannah Arendt or Jurgen Habermas, that the concentration of post-Hobbesian political science on instrumental reason tended to obscure another dimension of human action, namely Aristotelian praxis, where one seeks not to control with precision, but with a necessary approximation to persuade, exhort, and encourage a growth in the virtues as ends in themselves. This displacement of classical politics by a new political 'science' is of course very important, yet what these thinkers ignore is the fact that the sphere of the 'artificial' is not necessarily identical with that of the instrumental, any more than poetry is merely technology. (John Milbank: Theology & Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason, pp. 11-12)

In re John Milbank, my Aquinas-studying Baptist Green Beret Guardsman Buddy: I think I see a ducky and a horsey.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Foreign languages - part 1

The very first weekend I was out in the field with the National Guard Battalion that became my home once I was commissioned (this was in March; I wasn't commissioned until October; I didn't get into the Guard until the end of December -- it's a long and sordid story) I felt quite a bit as though it were Hallowe'en, despite it being springtime. I'd never before run around looking like G.I. Joe, and there I was surrounded by Soldiers who really *were* G.I. Joe.

Talk about feeling 'out of my comfort zone'!

That weekend was the first time in more than 30 years I'd slept in a multi-person tent (there were 40 of us in rather close quarters). Correction: that was the first time I'd spent the night in a multi-person tent since I was in the Boy Scouts.

I did not sleep.

At all.

What with the snoring, and the alarms going off every two hours for guard shift changes, and the generator truck outside revving up like a jet engine every so often, and the simple terror attendant upon being in the midst of a completely different language and culture and history and traditions, and the bitter cold against which the sleeping bag I'd been provided was no match, I just shivered in the dark until it was time to get up at 0430 that next morning.

There was a quarter inch of ice on the roof of the tent as I made my way to the latrine / shower building, about half a kilometer away, that first morning wearing a uniform.

It turns out that those BDUs (the woodland camouflage Battle Dress Uniform no longer authorized for wear now) actually belonged to the BC (Battalion Commander), and he'd taken the trouble to remove his name tape, rank, and branch insignia before bringing them for me to wear for the weekend, after which he just told me to keep them.

I wore those same BDUs when I was commissioned six months later, so my Dad could pin the one set of Captain bars he could find from his time as a Field Artillery Officer in the Army Reserve on my lapel during the ceremony. He was pretty jazzed about that! Mom pinned the Chaplain insignia on the other lapel.

But I digress.

That first weekend in the field, much to my surprise, the Soldiers -- none of whom I'd ever met before, not even the BC -- all treated me not only as if I were already a Chaplain, they seemed instantly to consider me *their* Chaplain. It felt odd, yet oddly fitting.

Everyone was going through weapons familiarization that weekend, and the BC wanted me to go out to the ranges to be with the Soldiers as they were firing weapons I'd never heard of before. I had lots of offers, and even some cajoling, to participate, but I'd decided beforehand that since Chaplains are non-combatants, I should probably act like one if I was acting like one.

(I did not fire any of those weapons then. I still have not fired a weapon since joining the Army....)

Saturday afternoon, though, rather than being at some range or other, I was told by the BC that he wanted me to come to the planning meeting which would map out the training schedule for the next year. "You can give Chaplain input," he said to me.

Abject terror.

People describe having dreams in which they're doing something important, only to discover they're naked while doing so. There I was, living the nightmare of having to do something important, and though being fully clothed, feeling completely naked.

It didn't help that once the meeting got going, I needed a simultaneous translator, whom they'd forgotten to bring along or something. The acronyms were flying fast and furious, and I soon had absolutely no clue whatsoever about the subject matter under consideration. At one point, one of the Majors simply started laughing because she realized that she'd been speaking for several minutes and had used very few real words during all that time, there were so many acronyms.

I suspect the look on my face must have been priceless, because I was more clueless than usual, which is saying something!

They apologized to me for all the jargon, and then the BC said, "OK Chappy, now it's time for your input."

Gulp.

Almost three years later, I'm here Down Range, and I realize I've begun sounding (and writing emails) just like those folks sounded that weekend. My sentences are often composed of at least as many acronyms as real words, and I'm saying "Hooah" a lot. ("Hooah" apparently means everything except the word, "No," in Army parlance.)

I love languages, and hope to continue learning more of them. This, however, is a foreign language I'd never imagined acquiring.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Grrrrrrrr

I received my "United Mileage Plus Summary" recently. It reads 7,076 miles, and has for a number of months now.

I used to fly United a lot when I was running around the country giving weekend retreats to people recovering from addictions of one sort or another. I'd started doing that many years ago now, when I was living in California for a few months at the home of a Jesuit friend of mine who's arguably among the best (read: funny, poignant, challenging, spiritual, erudite, accessible) retreat directors in that genre.

He and I had met the year before when I was out in California visiting a friend of mine who, like me, was in priest-school, but on the West Coast, rather than in the Northeast. We hit it off well, pretty much immediately, Tom and I did, and over the course of the next year, kept in touch.

Ever the one to play an angle, I hatched the idea of a junket whereby I could parlay spending time (*winter time*) on the West Coast with Tom, into the 'research' behind a Masters Thesis. (I was into my fourth masters degree program at the time -- could that be indicative of an addiction?) Tom was amenable, and I actually went out there right after school ended in the spring, and was there until the end of the following January.

During that summer I'd arranged to do some molecular biology at a school in Pasadena (with the highest ratio of Nobel-Prize-winners to students of any school, anywhere) in an attempt to discern whether I'd want to continue in biology studies after Ordination to the Priesthood, or move into studying church history for a doctorate, since I really love history.

Remember: I'm in priest-school in the Northeast.

Summer in Pasadena. Fall/Winter in Oakland/San Francisco.

How do *you* spell "junket"?

It was heaven!

And, to be honest, I did manage to come up with a Thesis entitled, "Toward a Theology of Recovery from Addiction," which turned out pretty well, I'd say. (It had nothing to do with the molecular biology stuff that I'd done earlier that summer, however....)

Anyway, as a result of spending all that time with Tom, and running hither, thither, and yon across North America (I think I accompanied him on thirteen retreats over the course of almost five months, many of which necessitated air travel) I began accumulating miles on United Airlines, since that was what Tom was flying.

Over the years since then, I've given well over one hundred of those retreats alone, and continued to amass lots of miles on United in the process. The year before I joined the Army, I did eleven of those retreats -- which is a fair number, considering I have a full-time job, and free-lance doing priest-things, on weekends, at a number of parishes.

Once I got into the Guard, however, I began getting orders to do Temporary Duty (TDY) assignments almost immediately. In the five months I was in the Guard before going to Chaplain Basic Training, I missed 33 work days out of 104, because I was so often on TDY. My employer has been *great* in terms of supporting my military activities, by the way! This past year, during the same time period, I missed 35 work days, again because of TDY.

All of this is to say that I've had to cut back drastically on the number of retreats I give, which has all but cut out the plane travel I used to do, as a result of my military obligations.

In April 2007, my United Mileage Plus account stood at 163,963 miles. In May 2007, at 163,963 miles. By the time I got back from Chaplain Basic Training (90 days of 'fun' for a 51-year-old, let me tell you!), my account stood at 0 (zero) miles.

My miles 'expired' because I'd not flown United in a while.

When I discovered this, I called United to let them know that a big reason for not flying had been the uncertainties of my schedule as I was in the process of trying to get the commission (I missed two trips to Thailand because of how goofy the accessions process was. Get this: There's a MEPS facility (Military Entrance Processing Station) on the post I can see from the Community where I live, but I had to go to Louisville, KY to go through MEPS -- and the Army kept putting off (over the course of ten weeks) when I was going to go there. Hence, no trips to Thailand!), and then my military service thereafter.

United Airlines' response: "Gee, that's too bad."

It still rankles me when I get my United Airlines Mileage Plus monthly statement.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Long days, longer nights....

SFC McG and I had a mission recently, to an area once referred-to as "The Triangle of Death." Many of my friends who were ROTC Cadets in the midwest have served there over the years.

The area is *much* quieter these days, thanks in large measure to their courageous and honorable service there.

The air assets being what they are these days, we were scheduled to leave the office about 1530, and not scheduled to return until 0115 -- if we were lucky.

We weren't.

We showed up at the Landing Zone (LZ) at 2345, awaiting our pickup for the return flight, and felt heartened when the young Specialist (E-4) from the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) at that post showed up a few minutes later to tell us he'd just spoken with the people in the know, who'd told him that everything was on time, or perhaps even a few minutes early.

Woohoo!

It was actually a very beautiful evening. It's gotten warm enough now that frogs can be heard singing at night, if the dogs aren't barking too loudly. With all the animal vocalizations going on under the bright full moon, I was reminded of being in the Amazon jungle the first night after landing in Iquitos, Peru and traveling an hour by skiff up a tributary of the Amazon River to our lodging for the night.

No mosquitoes, though!

The young Specialist was completely taken by the fact that he could see his shadow very clearly at midnight. Evidently, he'd never experienced -- or at least noticed -- that before. "I can't wait to call my wife and tell her I saw my shadow in the middle of the night out here!" he exclaimed several times.

The days are warming up, and probably because of the 'mackerel sky'-- lots of altocumulus or cirrocumulus clouds giving the impression of fish scales in the sky -- it was quite warm, all things considered, for that time of night.

At first.

There were lots of aircraft flying while we were out there at the LZ, waiting. And waiting. Two birds actually fly close by us, and appeared to be circling on approach (about 0145), but then abruptly flew away.

Finally at 0345, by which time it was quite cold, we went to the TOC, where we were told that our air mission request had just been canceled. "There's a convoy headed in your general direction later this morning, but the "LT" (pronounced, "Ell Tee": lieutenant) isn't getting up until 0500. We'll try to get you on the manifest."

SFC McG and I hung around the TOC for about an hour. There was an incident reported to those folks that needed attention, and I found it fascinating watching their response. We eventually went over to the MWR tent (most of the Soldiers live in mult-person tents there, and other services are located in tents, such as the "Morale, Welfare, Recreation" facilities), where we stretched out on sofas for about an hour.

The volume on the TV in that room was set to "grade-school-fire-alarm" level, and the air conditioner was set to "Arctic" (it's still winter here, and while it was relatively warm for what's been typical of the last couple of weeks, it was not warmer than 45 degrees Fahrenheit, so I wasn't sure what need there was for the air conditioner to be running in the first place); I didn't sleep. I just laid there, shivering.

I'd set my Palm Pilot alarm for 0600, but didn't need it. We showed up for the convoy brief, got assigned to a truck, finally found which of the many vehicles we were to ride in, and set out on our way home. We bounced our way back to the general vicinity of where we wanted to go, and I then found a phone to call the office to ask for a pickup from where we were.

We finally made it back to the office just before 1000 hours. Considering we'd left at 1530, the mission lasted a cool 18+ hours.

I know people *say* that my Masses feel as though they last that long....

I'm hoping to get some sleep, finally, but The Snorer next door is at it again. What's up with *that*?

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Hail and Farewell

There's a lot of change going on around SFC McG and me these days. We're saying good-bye to friends we've made over the last almost seven months, and getting to know many new folks. SFC McG actually has known a number of these people from his previous deployments, from Operation Desert Storm to the Border Mission most recently.

I'm not sure there's a Chaplain or Chaplain Assistant he doesn't know. At the very least, he'll pull some name out of his noggin and heads will nod affirmatively and someone will inevitably say, "Oh, you know him (her) too!"

The Army is a small family, indeed.

In fact, it's so small that the physician who signed off on all of my too-many-to-count medical waivers in order to get commissioned is the father of a student whom I taught when she was a first-year college student in the midwest. He and I had never met, and I'm quite certain he'd never even heard of me before.

I'm not sure how his last name caught my eye, but it struck some chord in the recesses of my rapidly-fading memory, and by using "the Google" I was able to remember my student's first name, thereby enabling me to find an email address for her.

I sent off an email to her (she's now in the Army herself), and voila! it was, in fact, her father who'd medically waivered me into the Army. Small world.

Go figure.

So SFC McG and I are bidding adieu to quite a gaggle of friends these days. I find myself both happy that they'll be home safely very soon, and at the same time sad that they'll not be around to pal around with, pray with, go to chow with, etc.

It's been quite an experience thus far, seeing how quickly close friendships -- of significant depth -- can develop during a combat deployment.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Prayer Requests

There are lots of folks who've asked me for prayers, so I figure I'll enlist some help here. Thanks!

My mom's back is still recovering from surgery about four months ago, and she's recently had a painful bone spur removed from one toe.

SFC McG's wife, Mrs. SFC McG, had surgery on her knee about six months ago now, and she's still experiencing a lot of pain and discomfort.

Elaine W, who had surgery and then radiation, has had to have her chest drained twice in the last couple of days, and this is several weeks after the end of the radiation. She's supposed to go on a cruise momentarily, so let's pray for knowledge of God's will and the power to carry that out....

Richey, one of my friends who goes to a lot of AA meetings, has just begun hospice care to try to manage her pain. He husband, Lee, has some profound dementia going on and doesn't know that Richey is ill. When she's not around, he gets very, very agitated.

Fr. Ernie, the former pastor of my parents' parish, has been very ill lately, and the kidney dialysis which is keeping him alive is causing other health problems.

Raelene, who's waited eight years for a kidney transplant, finally got one on New Year's Eve. She experienced some other health problems shortly thereafter, but seems to be on the mend. She and her husband Sol have kept busy being of service to others throughout Raelene's long medical ordeal.

It's actually very, very late (or early in the morning, depending upon one's perspective) right now, so this list should suffice for the present.

I rely on your prayerful, spiritual support, and am reminded of this passage from the Letter of James in the Christian Scriptures:

Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. (NRSV: Jas 5:13-16)

"The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective" -- which is why I'm asking for *your* prayers!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Perspective

I received an email today which I want to share with you in a slightly redacted form:

Hey Chaplain,

this is CPT C with [unit name withheld]. As I requested the other day, I would like to receive some weekly inspiration. Everything is cool out here at the JSS, albeit the no running water, which equates to no showers or latrines.

I hope all is well with you...

Arrivederci,

Did you catch the part about the "no running water"?

No showers and no latrines.

Think about it.

These Soldiers put up with some pretty nasty conditions, even this long into the war here Down Range. It never ceases to edify me how uncomplaining and dedicated these young people are.

The place where this Soldier lives is so small that no Chaplain (of any denomination) may get out to visit them. There are lots and lots of these tiny outposts through the battlespace.

It breaks my heart to know that these courageous young Soldiers are in the thick of things, enduring such daily hardships and indignities, and may not get visited by any Chaplain while they're there. And whereas they put up with constant deprivations, I'm able to sleep in my CHU and walk to the shower and latrine trailers in which we have running water. I wish I were able to get out to visit each of these places!

I suspect there are an awful lot of folks back home who have no idea as to what goes on over here, and what these brave Soldiers bear on behalf of the rest of us....

It certainly places things into perspective for me.

I'm reminded of a quote from the First Letter of Peter in the Christian Scriptures:

In this you rejoice, even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith—being more precious than gold that, though perishable, is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy, for you are receiving the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls. (NRSV: 1Pet 1:6-9)

Please pray for CPT C and his buddies at this Joint Security Station, and so many others like him around this county, if you'd be so kind.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Simple pleasures

My parents send me some wonderful bread from time to time, along with some homemade rhubarb and rhubarb/strawberry conserve. Who knew that my Dad was such a kitchen wizard as to be making jams and jellies?

Just after Mom and Dad got home from visiting me while I was in the States recently, they put together a couple of boxes and sent them off to me. One of the boxes had lots of "snack-pack" M&Ms (plain and peanut) from my sister (thanks, Sis!) along with a nice summer sausage.

The other box had some home-made cookies (including the "yum-yums" my Dad's mom used to make; thanks, Mom!) and a loaf of bread from Great Harvest Bread Co. in downtown Northville. They make *wonderful* breads!

So imagine my chagrin upon finding out that, because of the changes going on here Down Range, anything that had been sent to my new address wound up languishing in a warehouse someplace, instead of coming here to me! Rats!

I finally received the boxes yesterday, more than three weeks after they were sent. We were all convinced the bread (and perhaps the cookies, too) would be toast, as it were. Or at least a penicillin factory. What a bummer!

Well, folks, I'm here to tell you that that Honey Whole Wheat bread was perfectly fine: still moist and flavorful and especially delicious for all it had been through. I figure the mark of good bread is to be able to eat it 'as is' -- sans toasting, butter, or other accoutrements. I even started off eating the heel -- tasty!

Once I added Dad's rhubarb/strawberry conserve, it helped me forget for a moment just how knocked for a loop I've been with this upper respiratory crud. Delicious!

So, if you're looking for some good bread, I'd encourage you to give Good Harvest Bread Co. a try! (I don't have any financial or other interest in them at all; neither does anyone in my family....) They have a website, and appear to ship their baked goods to points east of Colorado:

http://www.greatharvestnorthville.com/index.html

There's an ancient spiritual maxim which states: Go where you're fed.

This might be a good place to start!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Bragging Rights

I received an email today from the Battalion Commander of the ROTC Battalion that I hang out with when I'm at home. It turns out that there are five ROTC Cadets at the school where I teach biology this year, but since my school hasn't had an ROTC program for a couple of decades now, the students have to commute down to the local Jesuit university in order to be in ROTC.

It's a thirty-minute drive if there's no traffic (a rare occurrence), each way. Cadets have to do PT Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings at zero-dark-thiry, and then must attend "lab" on Wednesday afternoons. That's a lot of miles, and a lot of gas. (When I left for Summer Camp, I paid $4.75 per gallon the last time I filled up my car.) The dedication of the commuting Cadets is awesome.

Because first-year undergrads at my school aren't supposed to have cars on campus (yeah, right), the Cadre from the Jesuit school come up to us once a week to teach the first-year Military Science course. Seeing as I'm probably one of the very few Reservists working where I do, I decided I'd ask my National Guard Battalion Commander at the time for his permission to put on my uniform once a week, so I could attend class with the Cadets, as a way of letting them know that someone in the military on campus 'has their back'.

I also figured I could probably learn something myself, since I was going into this thing knowing less than nothing about the military!

My former Battalion Commander in the Guard has been in the military for more than 20 years now, and has been branched Infantry, Chemical, and Quartermaster (Combat Arms, Combat Support, and Combat Service Support) -- in other words, he's done it all. An awesome leader, who really has a heart for his Soldiers, LTC W played a huge role in getting me into the Army in the first place, but that's another story (and so fraught with ridiculousness I suspect I'd get in a lot of trouble, should I relate it here)....

The Colonel told me I could do that, as long as I agreed to stay in uniform the whole day. "You know how leftist they are there. Seeing you in uniform will be good for them," said he.

So, all last year I went to class with the Cadets (almost) every week, and then went about the rest of my day at work, in uniform. No one ever said a single negative thing to me (at least in my hearing!) during all that time.

So much for the place being irremediably leftist, I guess!

The Cadets are wonderful young women and men, and have proved themselves again and again to be among the most accomplished Cadets in the Battalion. I managed to convince the ROTC Battalion Commander to let me run PT on Wednesday mornings at school, so the students wouldn't have to commute *twice* down to the Jesuit school that day. He was understandably cautious at first, but relented. After we began this program, all of the Stanford Cadets increased their PT scores (a couple, rather dramatically).

This year, they're running the program themselves, as yet another testimony to their leadership abilities.

Because of the strain on resources posed by the wars over here and in Afghanistan, the summer training opportunities for ROTC Cadets have diminished. The Battalion Commander was led to believe that each ROTC program in his region was going to be limited to two internships each, this coming summer.

His email to me just indicated that all three of *my* sophomore Cadets have been picked up for the summer internships they applied for. Hooray!!!

Way to go, Cadets Ann, Jimmy, and Oliver! I'm proud to be associated with you. (And I'm especially envious of you, Oliver, going to Thailand!)

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Pavane

I saw the problems long before you did, and
Mentioned, before our parting, that if ever you
Saw them, to give me a call. "I've stayed sober
Half my life; I don't have those problems now, my friend."

Years later, you phoned: "Tim, I'm in trouble. Big
Trouble." My heart, having ached dully for all those
Days as I watched you foundering, broke. “Don’t drink
Anything else," I said. “Go to a meeting now,

And sign yourself in to the rehab program
First thing in the morning. If they force you in, you're
Out; but if self-referred, you've got a chance to
Stay." You listened and went, much to my great relief.

'Ego deflation at depth' is what my friends
Who go to a lot of meetings call it, I think.
Facing truly insurmountable odds, you
Didn't drink, you went to meetings, you lived sober.

And it worked.

You stayed sober through adversity upon
Adversity. And you thrived in your profession,
And you made good friends; you came alive inside.
It was a delight to share, even from across

The continent. Even all those mornings you
Called at 4 a.m. my time! Especially those
Times one of us flew cross-country to be with
The other, to give voice to our experience,

Strength, and hope in the midst of others trying
To do the same: Not only just not to drink, one
Day at a time, but really to live joyous,
Raucous, spirited lives by being of service

To both newcomers and old-timers, like us.
But as the days became months and years, you became
Too busy for meetings and too different
From your good friends. And the ache in my heart returned,

Once again,

Beat by beat intensifying, as I watched
From afar. "Let go and let God" my Al-Anon-
Going friends breathed to me. "'Messiah' is not
Part of *your* job description, Pal," they say gently.

The ache grows as the psychic distance lengthens.
You tell me, finally, "I've been drinking six times
Since you left for Iraq, but I'm still working
Steps." "No," I reply, "you're not. Not if you're drinking

Once a month without going to meetings." (You're
keeping *me* sober, though.) Now you tell me that you've
'Grown up'. That you can 'handle it'. That you're now
'Different'. That you want to be honest with me

About this. I'm grateful for the honesty,
My friend, but I fear you're setting yourself up for
Pain beyond your imagining. And my heart
Shatters into a billion pieces yet again.

It does that.

I held Brian as he breathed his last breath, and
Was blinded by grief for months. And I watched Saffar,
Ever the RANGER, fight valiantly to
The end. My love could not even save TJ, my

Own brother. I hate this thing, powerlessness,
That my friends who go to meetings talk about. I
Just hate it that my love cannot save the ones
I love. I hate that sometimes my love can't even

Help them at all. Once again I see one whom
I love changing in ways that inspire fear in me,
And in our friends. I see you choose freely to
Return to the path that brought you destruction and

Shame and pain. Today, though, I can still love you
As you are, drinking, because I've become empowered,
-- Like so many others -- in the midst of all
My powerlessnesses, by Love and Hope: in short,

By the God

Who’s my Higher Power. So I surrender
Myself -- and you -- into those loving but pierced arms,
And I put on my uniform one more time,
To go about my day trying to serve others.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Down but not out

I somehow managed to make it through my leave, being around lots and lots of people who had some sort of upper respiratory malaise without getting sick.

Until now.

Sore throat. Hacking cough. General ennui. Yecch.

The trip to the Troop Medical Clinic yielded over-the-counter remedies, as I'd expected it would. But at least I went, so now I can say that I did! Now it's just a matter of moving through the powerlessness without adding in more unmanageability than is already present.

A tall order, to be sure! Especially in my case.

I'm grateful that this too shall pass. My friends who go to a lot of AA and Al-Anon (and other 12-Step!) meetings keep telling me that gratitude in the face of adversity, loss, pain, sadness, anger -- powerlessnesses all -- makes a huge difference.

So I'm practicing being satisfied, practicing being grateful.

It's actually not that hard to do, though it seems much easier, most of the time, to give in to just being curmudgeony. So I'm making up gratitude lists as I go along, today.

My boss, who's sharing my CHU for at least a week more, very kindly went to the DFAC and brought me back a sandwich, soda, and chips for lunch.

He dropped the food onto the ground just as he was about to pass over the threshold.

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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Deo Gratias!

My friend SPC C, who was pulling guard duty yesterday at the JSS (Joint Security Station) where he lives, wrote me last night to say of Iraq's Election Day: "well, today was utterly uneventful."

I say, "Hooray!"

A bit later one he wrote, "I wasnt really even surprised by the lack of violence...for a couple of reasons, but the biggest is that we made it a hard target by training up the ISF [Iraqi Security Force] and keeping them on their toes. Also, I figure AQI [al Qaeda Iraq] and the JAM [Jaish al-Mahdi; Sadr's forces] are now to a point where they are more interested in getting their people into the gvt than in preventing the elections...."

He and his buddies (like SGT J) have done great things with the Iraqis at the tiny post where they live. I commend them for it! And this was just at one tiny post; countless others throughout the country had similar experiences. Congratulations to all!

Now, if the Iraqis do as well with the aftermath of the election as they did with the election itself, we'll be doing very well indeed.

Thank God. Many thanks to you for all the prayers. I'd say they're working!

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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